


I Can Hear You Now

by PJVilar



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJVilar/pseuds/PJVilar
Summary: "So, five hundred fifty miles left until Cambridge. That’s like almost 900 clicks," Ray says. There’s the heavy creak of a door closing."More clicks than we ever would have been concerned with," Nate replies. "Seems close now."He scratches his nails over his other nipple, presses down hard. He never takes the time to turn himself on when he’s alone. It doesn’t feel like he’s alone. He forces himself to still his hand. This can wait until he’s off the phone.Finally cross-posting from LJ.





	I Can Hear You Now

Ray calls Nate to say he’ll be in Boston in October. He explains the band and the tour like this: it’s kind of a last hurrah of ginormous ear-splitting proportion between leaving the service and somehow becoming a grownup.  
  
They’ll play two dates --- one at some big U of B frat thing and the other in a club in Newton. Nate is invited to the one in Newton and he accepts. It sounds like fun. That’s been in short supply lately.  
  
Ray’s last hurrah, as the tour starts and progresses, also seems to involve finding the country’s best rhubarb pie; seeing the biggest ball of twine in Kansas; and playing one bar – where, Nate still isn’t sure – where they get beer bottles thrown at them like in _The Blues Brothers_.  
  
Ray says this is just about the most fucking awesome thing to happen to him ever.  
  
Nate grins, standing on the steps outside the library or closing his laptop at Starbucks to hear Ray’s tales, told over creaky cell connections outside dreary concrete motels across the Midwest, where Ray probably sits in the blackness and smokes and mouths off. Ray's no different now than before, at least in that sense.  
  
Nate’s not having any big adventures. He’s earning a degree and writing a book and recovering from PTSD. All things he does shuttling between four or five locations in Cambridge, with occasional pub crawls and half-hearted dates to fill up his time.  
  
_That’s a whole fucking lot, clear proof that the Marines do indeed reissue one’s brains upon exit_. Ray says that, during their sixth – seventh? Nate’s losing track -- phone call. Nate’s stretched out on his couch, his glasses clasped in the hand resting on his belly, the floor lamp illuminating only him in the dark living room.  
  
And it is a lot. But it’s carefully contained and plotted. For the first year, that was just what he needed.  
  
But now something is shifting. He feels it when he’s writing, when he’s running, when he’s trying to resurrect his apartment from its precarious state of almost-chaos.  
  
He feels it on the nights Ray doesn’t call. He wonders what adventures he might be having, where, with whom.  
  
Nate’s not living his life solely in an effort to come to terms with Iraq anymore. But he’s also not sure what happens next. But he starts to identify the feeling; not to go off on some cross-country adventure like Ray, but to at least go off-road, chuck the goddamn map.  
  
It doesn’t particularly sound like Ray has worked out the exact details of how he’ll become a grown-up after he’s done driving cross-country in a smelly van and making stops to drink beer and play bass and neck with college girls. He talks about going back to school, or working for Walt, or opening a bar.  
  
_What do you want to do?_ Nate asks him, sitting at his kitchen table, still in the clothes he wore to his night class. _When you close your eyes, what do you see yourself doing?_  
  
It’s late, what is swiftly becoming the Ray hour, and they’re drinking beer together again, this time about eight hundred miles apart.  
  
_This, I guess, LT,_ Ray replies. _What I’m doing right now. But I can’t just keep doing this forever._  
  
It’s not until well after they’ve signed off, after Nate has cleaned up the kitchen and gone to brush his teeth, that his mind replays those words. Ray was surely talking about the tour. Not about talking in the dark, on the phone with Nate.

If he’s being honest, the leap in stomach is not his first clue that the idea excites him. But it is the first one he doesn’t ignore.

Ray calls a couple of days later from Akron. They played some kind of Oktoberfest. Ray rants about the inferior beer and raves about the superior kielbasa.

Over the course of the conversation, Nate gets ready for bed. He doesn’t even bother muting the phone when he brushes his teeth, just _uh-huhs_ through the scrubbing sounds he knows are audible when Ray chuckles.

As Nate gets under the covers, turns off the side lamps, Ray gossips about the other guys and tells Nate to please, if he wants Ray to keep his balls on with these guys, get their name right when he meets them. It’s _Dark Lord Heart_, not _Heart of Darkness_, _Art of Noise_, or _Captain Beefheart_.

Nate laughs and says he’s looking forward to seeing if the pictures in his head are anything like what they’re really like.

There’s a pause. Nate can hear Ray exhale, probably the last drag of a cigarette before he goes into his room.

Nate drags his palm softly over his chest, over the cotton t-shirt, aware of his breath hitching up. There’s more silence. Knowing full well what he’s doing, Nate moves his thumb over his right nipple, then begins to pull at it as he waits. He grips the phone against his ear with his other hand.

_So, five hundred fifty miles left until Cambridge. That’s like almost 900 clicks_, Ray says. There’s the heavy creak of a door closing.

_More clicks than we ever would have been concerned with_, Nate replies. _Seems close now_.

He scratches his nails over his other nipple, presses down hard. He never takes the time to turn himself on when he’s alone. It doesn’t feel like he’s alone. He forces himself to still his hand. This can wait until he’s off the phone.

_Yeah, I’ll be there in a few days_.

Nate’s already half-hard when he hears the warmth in Ray’s voice, pictures his unabashed grin. Jesus, he has to unfuck this. At least this is what he’s thinking as he extracts his cock from his briefs.

It feels like a lover’s hand touching him and not his own.

_You’re still welcome to crash here. Unless some sorority girl wants to be your groupie that night._ He means it lightly. It sounds light when he says it. But his gut clenches, another sensation beneath the thrill of his hand on his cock.

There’s a weird grunt on the other end of the phone. Annoyance, maybe. _Nate, have you even fucking noticed I don’t talk about that anymore?_

As Ray says this, Nate slides his hand down his shaft to press hard behind his balls. The gasp he lets out is a physical reaction, a response to what Ray said, and a rare moment of not being in complete control of himself.

_Nate?_ Ray sounds non-plussed, like maybe the connection went out for a second. Nate stills his hand, tries to hiss his held breath out quietly. His heart is thumping, he can feel it in his palm, leaned against his thigh.

_Nate?_ This time it’s concerned. Nate lets out a small, choked laugh. It almost sounds like a moan.

_Oh, shit._ Ray says softly. Nate freezes. He feels disgusting and wants to get his shorts back up. He didn’t know it was possible to be all alone in a room and be completely mortified.

_Nate. Can you – it’s alright. Nate._

There’s a rough exhale on the other end. Nate looks all over the room, still holding his breath tight inside his body. Ray exhales again.

_Nate,_ and now he’s low, direct. _Tell me where I’m staying when I come to your apartment._

Oh, God. _Wherever you’re –_

_No. Fuck, no, don’t pull that shit with me._ And then, it changes, from just Ray to something else, pleading and dark, a part Nate doesn’t know at all. _Tell me._

Nate hesitates, and then slowly lets his legs fall open, as if Ray were there and could see it. Offering himself. He opens up, because he can hear Ray’s breathing now, can hear his desire, and he’s too far gone to stop.

_In my bed_. Ray groans in response. Nate’s not one hundred percent sure, but he thinks he can hear the sound of skin on skin, Ray touching himself for Nate in some motel room in the dark.

And now that the car is most assuredly off the road, he does exactly what he wants. Spits into his hand and strokes himself roughly, hips moving into it, his ass nearly coming off the bed. He readjusts the phone so as not to drop it

Nate sighs. _I want you in my bed, Ray._

_Oh fuck,_ and right then Nate swears to God he can _see_ Ray, muscled and stripped bare, one foot up on the mattress, one hand pulling at his cock, fast, concentrating on the head. His head pressed back against the cheap motel headboard as if someone was pinning him there. _Don’t you fucking stop. Tell me._

_I’m so hard right now. I want -- you’re in my bed with me. Kissing my neck. Fucking me hard. Oh, God._

_Are you close?_ Ray says and it occurs to Nate, absurdly, that he’s been doing most of the talking.

_Uh huh,_ he grits out.

_Listen to me, Nate, _Ray murmurs, and how could Nate not. _You’re gonna fuck my mouth right now. Understand?_

Nate moans a high, embarrassing _uh-huh_ and is grateful when Ray keeps going.

_We’re on your big bed and you’re kneeling over me, straddling my face, fucking into my mouth. I’m swallowing you down--_

_Oh, God, Ray--_

_That’s it,_ Ray says, rough and breathless. _Pull out and come on my face, Nate. Come on my face and when you’re done lick it out of my mouth--_

And Nate was gone anyway but he loves this, loves hearing Ray talking just for him, pictures every beautiful filthy thing he’s saying as he finishes himself off and deep pulls of pleasure overtake him.

He lets out a long, almost ugly groan, as his cock spurts out thick, stuttering ropes of come in sharp pulses. It’s so good it’s exhausting.

He’s still finishing when he pushes the words from his mouth for Ray, blissfully dirty, knowing it’s okay now.

_Ray, I wanna lick my come out of your mouth while you fuck me--_ and Ray is chanting curses on the other end before Nate has even finished the sentence.

Nate listens to Ray panting in Ohio. He’s covered in come. His face is wet with sweat and the phone is sticky and uncomfortable pressed against his face. He smiles.

_You still coming here?_ he asks. It’s a good idea. An adventure.

Ray sounds tired and amused. 

_You couldn’t stop me if you tried,_ he says.


End file.
